


Spring Cleaning

by Dhae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-His Last Vow, Pre-Slash, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 04:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3433988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhae/pseuds/Dhae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary is having the baby. John seeks shelter with Sherlock, and the two of them do some heavy duty spring-cleaning in their relationship. Basically... my own headcanon fixit for everyone stuck in Johnlock hell until next series comes around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spring Cleaning

**Author's Note:**

> This will be Jossed so hard when series four comes around, but I needed something to make the angst end until then. And that's how this came about. Owes a great debt of gratitude to everyone who writes meta of the tjlc-variety.

Spring was sneaking onto Baker Street, John realized, as he dithered on the pavement. One overly optimistic blackbird was singing his little heart out despite the temperatures. John wished he felt better about that. He wished he felt better about a lot of things.

Eventually, he gathered his courage in both hands and opened the familiar black door. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, really. Nor anywhere else he’d rather be, if he was honest about it.

Sherlock welcomed him with hardly a word. Just a raised eyebrow and a tart: “Oh.” He nodded at the teapot, then went back to his computer.

John poured himself a cup of tea. Sat down in his old chair that had never again left it’s spot in front of the fire. Thought.

Decided that an ‘oh’ wasn’t good enough for him. Not today, when he was walking so close to the edge.

“So Mary’s in labor,” he announced. Sherlock stopped tapping. Closed the lid. Came over to sit down in his chair.

“And you’re not there,” he observed.

“Got to drop her off,” John confessed, bitterly. “After that, she wanted her friends to come sit with her.”

Sherlock looked thoughtfully down his nose, and John seethed silently. It was damn well not his place to pass judgement.

“You could have insisted,” Sherlock said, and that was all it took. The spark that ignited.

“Oh, insisted, you think? You think that’s a good idea? To insist to a hormonal woman with contractions, who can - and will! - shoot you dead?”

"Well you were the one who chose her!" Sherlock raised his voice uncharacteristically, got up and paced a few laps. John watched him, motions clipped and annoyed, and decided it was time for honesty. For once, it was time for honesty. They were already broken. There was barely any friendship left to lose, anyway, and that thought was acid in his gut.

"Of course I chose her, Sherlock, you were dead!"

Sherlock froze mid-step. Clearly he hadn't anticipated John replying honestly. He unfroze slowly. Walked, slowly, to his chair and sat with uncharacteristic care. "I had my reasons," he finally replied loftily.

"Three years later and I still don't know," John observed bitterly.

"What difference does it make," Sherlock asked, annoyance seeping into his tone.

“What difference does it make that you jumped to your death in front of me; let others know you were alive, but not me? Are you seriously…” John shook his head. “No. No. Not this time, Sherlock. I grieved for you. For 18 fucking months, I grieved. Greg confiscated my gun after a month, that was how bad it was. And then I met Mary, and…”

John looked down, away, sinking into a world of his own. “You know. I never expected much of my life. I really didn’t. I wanted the simple things. I wanted someone to come home to at night, the companionship, the easy, casual intimacies of a relationship. I wanted the bickering about whose turn it was to do the laundry and reminders about picking up the milk on the way home. Someone to cuddle up to when we watch the telly, and someone to curl up with at night.”

He looked up again, meeting Sherlock’s eyes with a kind of a steely determination that this was it. This was where they’d have it all out, once and for all.

“That was what I wanted. The wedding. The kids. That was… those were bonuses. Maybes. ‘It might be nice to have’s. And you know the irony of it all. You know the heartbreaking truth of it all, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head mutely.

“You were the one person, in all my life, I got closest with.” John laughed bitterly, not seeing how Sherlock rocked back as if struck.

“Mary was a substitute. I thought… I mean, I really thought she could be it. And for six months, she was. Hell, for almost a year, she was, although our home-life paled somewhat after you came back. But then… once we were married, it... It wasn’t. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t any of those things I wanted. And no, Sherlock, it was never about the excitement. If I wanted adrenaline, I could get it working in any old A&E.”

Sherlock swallowed. Hard. Blinked at John. Waited.

“Can I speak now?”

“Please!” John begged.

Sherlock got up. Paced around his chair. Stopped behind it, leaning his hands on it’s back, hanging his head down between his shoulders. Looked back up at John, who was looking caught between worry and anger.

“I…” He stopped. Started again. “You’ve always said you’re no good at emotions, John, so understand that when I say I’m not, I mean I’m worse. Just… I’ll say this. All of it. Once. Just… let me get it out.”

He looked up to check that John was nodding, before walking around and sitting down in his chair again, leaned forward, this time, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on his hands clasped in front of him.

“Sentiment is a weakness. I’ve known that since I was a boy, and Mycroft has taken pains to remind me every time I’m likely to forget. He’s been reminding me regularly for the past five years, now.”

John didn’t miss it, the reference to the time that had passed since he’d met Sherlock.

“I thought it was easy. Not caring. I thought it was a choice I could make, and had made, time and time again. I took pride in being stronger than others, when my head ruled my heart. I thought people were being lazy when they fell into sentiment. I thought they just weren’t trying hard enough. So when I met you, I expected that it would be as it always had been. An acknowledgement that you could be more, and then… nothing more.”

“Only… it wasn’t.” Sherlock sighed. “You kept exceeding my expectations. Kept me off-balance. Kept prodding at that sentiment I didn’t want. Kept demanding I care more than I wanted to. Kept being, well… you.” He gestured at John as if that explained anything. Which, if John was being honest, gave him a warm, tender glow. Even as it confused him.

“And I knew. I knew it was all on me. You had all those dates. All those girlfriends. You kept telling people we weren’t together. You told Irene you weren’t gay. But at the same time you… you kept being you. Kept coming back to me. Kept walking out on girlfriends to solve crimes with me. And I… kept falling.”

He leaned back, slowly, steepling his hands thoughtfully, his voice growing distant as if he was partially lost in thought.

“Understand, John, that I wasn’t fully aware of any of this. It was all unaccustomed emotions and unwelcome sentiment, and if I occasionally went too far, it wasn’t out of malice or ill intent, but simply because I was ill equipped to deal with it all.”

“So when I faked my death, I didn’t fully comprehend what I was doing to you. I believed you enjoyed the cases, but I never dreamt that you felt more for me than that. My own emotions, however, only intensified during the months I was away. I… missed you.”

John swallowed audibly, but Sherlock pressed on, apparently oblivious, for once is his observant life.

“I returned, finding you engaged, and I… I understood more. Understood what it would cost me, and what it meant to you, and I made my decision to stand back. Let you have the love I couldn’t give you. Because I still knew that love and sentiment wasn’t in me. Oh, the emotions, certainly. But not the expressions of them. In that respect I am still woefully under equipped. And, even if I had been capable, you did not want them from me.”

Such painful words, so blandly delivered. No quaver. No tears. You could almost believe he felt nothing, if not for the faint tremble in his hands, index-fingers now pressed to his lips. He was silent for a long time, and John waited. Eventually running out of patience.

“Can I say something now?” He asked.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes glowing damply. “Not just… No… I want… I want to finish.”

Silence reigned for another few minutes, Sherlock’s breath slow and deliberate, and if it occasionally hitched or stuttered, John ignored it.

“I want you to be happy. That’s all. I will do anything to make that happen. Anything, John. I’ve never. In all my life. I’ve never felt that way about anyone. I don’t believe I ever will again.”

Sherlock wavered, finally settling his hands on his knees, visibly steeling himself.

“I made a mistake, after the wedding. I said it was for a case, but it wasn’t. Or. Well. Not entirely, anyway. The drugs were a mistake, and one I won’t be repeating. Ever.”

He swallowed.

“What I’m trying to say, is that I know you. I know you care about me. Please don’t let that influence your decision. I will be fine, so long as you’re happy. I will be your friend, your colleague, your... nothing at all, if you want. Whatever you want me to be I'll be."

The words should have made this into a romantic declaration, but the steely intent behind them; that unbendable will, rendered it immutable truth. Sherlock Holmes would reshape himself into whatever form fit John Watson's whims, and it was all too much.

Even John was surprised when he inhaled and his breath hitched on a sob. "Sherlock..." Fond and desperate and so, so awed by the heart of the man he'd thought heartless so often.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded decisively. "Yes. I'm done now."

It wasn't a conscious decision on John's part, and later he'd be somewhat mortified by that fact. But in that instant he found himself on his knees beside Sherlock's ridiculously large feet, hands reaching up to grab those insane cheekbones, tugging to bring Sherlock's head closer. Sherlock, for his part, stiffened in response to the abrupt motion, and resisted the pull, eyes and nostrils blown wide with animal fear.

"Please," John whispered hoarsely, and tugged again. "Please, Sherlock." And as he always had, John realized now, Sherlock did as John asked, bending closer.

The first pass was off center, John’s lips barely skirting Sherlock’s before sliding over his cheek. The second time around his aim was considerably better, and their lips met in an explosion of sentiment that made John moan.

In seconds, his head was cradled in Sherlock’s large, still shaking hands but there was really no need. John wasn’t going anywhere. Possibly ever again.

Eventually, it was Sherlock who pulled his lips away, resting his forehead against John’s with a sigh.

“What?” John mumbled, lips still tingling from the kisses.

“Mary,” Sherlock replied softly.

John froze. Then pressed one, last, lingering sweet kiss into the corner of Sherlock’s mouth before disentangling and leaning back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his mouth. He glanced up at Sherlock, who didn’t shutter his emotions fast enough. It was plain as day how much it hurt him to watch John, even unconsciously, try to rub away their kisses, and it was unbearable to watch him struggling to control it.

“Sherlock,” John said and reached back out to him, catching a few fingers of his right hand and holding on. “Listen. I don’t know about Mary just now. It seems like a shitty time to divorce her, but I don’t want to go back, either. Our daughter is…” There was a twitch of Sherlock’s face. A miniscule tic that John would probably have dismissed the day before, but wouldn’t today.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock twisted in the chair, careful not to dislodge John’s hold on him, but John wasn’t letting go. Wasn’t letting it go, either, and made sure his face said so. Eventually, Sherlock subsided, and with the look of a man about to be hanged, spoke. “Not your daughter.”

John rocked back. “Not…?”

“Not yours,” Sherlock clarified, inflection making his meaning obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“Then…”

“Who?” Sherlock’s eyes were so terribly, unbearably kind. “David, I’m afraid. I suspect he’s the one with her at the hospital as we speak, rather than her friends.”

John hid his eyes with his remaining hand, still not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. He didn’t know what he felt. Betrayal, tempered by relief. Sadness, tempered by joy. For a few minutes he stopped trying to make sense of it, allowing his body to just… do whatever the hell it wanted.

Soon, though, he pulled himself together. Sherlock was still there. Sherlock still deserved something. Anything, basically. Anything at all.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Look. I meant it when I said that what I had with you when I was living here was pretty damn close to perfect. And straight off the bat… I want that back. I want to move back in here.”

“Perfect?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John smiled crookedly at him. “Pretty much. Wouldn’t say no to you occasionally picking up the milk, or giving me a hand lugging the groceries home, and we definitely need to have a conversation about food and experiments and why those two things shouldn’t mix.”

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically. Then his motions slowed. “And… and… Intimacy?”

John felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. God. How had he not noticed just how dear Sherlock had become to him. How every awkwardness had become so terribly, perfectly adorable. He put his free hand on Sherlock’s knee, and was suddenly aware of how close he’d come to this point on his own bloody stag-night.

Distracted, temporarily, he observed; “If it hadn’t been for the case with the Mayfly-man…” He trailed off, looking up to find Sherlock’s eyes glowing at him. “I would have, Sherlock. You need to know that. I would have done anything, that night.”

“It would have broken us, I think,” Sherlock said soberly. “You would have been so guilty. So angry. And I didn’t know, yet.”

That caught John’s attention. “Yet?”

“Just how deeply I was involved with you. I didn’t become fully aware until the wedding feast.”

“God, Sherlock. How much longer could we have gone on, if we hadn’t had it out today?”

Sherlock’s entire body shuddered, and John nodded. “Yeah, no. I don’t want to think about that, either.”

He backtracked the conversation. “Intimacy, you said. What do you mean, exactly? How much experience have you had?”

Sherlock fidgeted. “Experience is such a… comprehensive word.”

John tried, and failed, to suppress a delighted smile. “That little, huh?”

“I’ve had sex,” Sherlock asserted with a haughty snif, and John’s smile grew gentle.

“Anything, Sherlock. Anything at all. Or nothing at all, if you prefer.”

“You… you don’t want sex?” Sherlock’s face was soft and curious.

“I think it’s more honest to say that I want you more,” John admitted.

They just looked at each-other for a minute. Sherlock looking for confirmation, John looking for… well, for the pleasure of it. Always before he’d had to censor himself. It felt incredible to have the right to just… look. Eventually, however, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I liked the kissing,” he confessed.

“I think the kissing would probably be the thing I’d miss the most,” John agreed. “Well. That and the cuddling. You cuddle, don’t you?”

Sherlock looked doubtful. “I haven’t really…”

“We’ll work it out,” John promised. “Just… be honest. Tell me if it feels weird or uncomfortable. I’m pretty sure we can find something we’ll both like.”

“And sex?”

John couldn’t help smiling again. Sherlock looked like he’d chewed on something foul. Like arugula.

“We’ll work that out too. As long as we can kiss and cuddle, I don’t mind taking matters into my own hand as it were.” Sherlock looked mildly intrigued at that. “Or lend a hand, if you’d be interested.” Sherlock was definitely perking up. Then his face fell back into arugula-territory.

“I meant a-anal.” His tongue tripped over the word, and John just had to pull him back down and kiss him.

“I figured you did. And it’s really not something I care about all that much. Besides, there are plenty of other interesting things you can do. I mean, if I made a list we could be at it until Halloween. If you made a list, we could probably keep it going until next year. And if Irene made a list…”

Sherlock laughed, a comfortable rumble of sound John hadn’t heard in far too long, which made him tilt his head sideways in appreciation.

“I missed that,” he confessed.

“What?”

“You. Laughing. I missed that.”

Sherlock reached down and wrapped a hand around John’s jaw, pulling his face up, searching for something. “You really believe we can do this?”

“I know we can, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, I’m stubborn, and everybody already thought we were together ages ago.”

Sherlock smiled. Reached down and dragged John, bodily, up into the chair with him. Into his lap. And John smiled right back at him and settled in, head on his shoulder. And like that, Sherlock’s arms wrapped around him, and his own around Sherlock, he confessed.

“I thought, when I opened my mouth today, that this was it. That I’d walk out that door, and our friendship would be over.”

Sherlock kissed the top of his head and relaxed even further. “Even if you had walked out that door, our friendship would never have been over,” he promised, and John closed his eyes.

This, he decided. This could be the rest of his life.

 


End file.
